"food memories" news and stories

I don't have much of a relationship with potato chips these days. I consider them a guilty treat, to be eaten at parties but never at home. It's like having soda in the house -- if I buy it, they will eat it. And if they eat it, chips, I mean, they'll be hooked, and I'll never hear the end of it. The best I can offer my kids is the occasional package of tortilla chips, something to dredge up the salsa with.

Ah, but I have a past. And my past is filled with processed foods of the sort that I'd never let my kids near, lest they come to understand the dark pleasures of Hostess products.

My parents had no such compunction with me. I grew up on Wonder Bread and TV dinners and Uncle Ben's Converted Rice. I ate a Hostess Fruit Pie almost every day. But among my most treasured taste memories: Munchos brand potato chips.

Source

When I was young and my family still lived in Los Angeles, we'd make the drive from Eagle Rock to Woodland Hills to visit my grandma Bunny about once a month. My dad's brothers would arrive with their families, filling the driveway with cars, dogs and kids. The musicians would settle down to the serious business of jamming, while Bunny listened, occasionally added a harmony line and took care of dinner. During the summer months, she would buy dozens of ears of corn and it would be my job to help her with the husking. We'd sit outside at a picnic table, a paper grocery bag from Ralph's between us and we shuck away. I can't make corn on the cob without thinking of her.

Over the weekend, I bought some corn at the farmers market and last night I gave it a quick steam. I was the only one eating, but I boiled all I had, because while I love it buttered and hot, straight off the cob, I also am a big fan of fresh corn on salads. What I couldn't eat was sliced off the cob and is now waiting in the fridge to be tossed with some arugula and Lancaster county tomatoes. Oh, but it was good on the cob. Sweet and crunchy and tasting of the essence of summer.

photo by Marisa McClellan